“That’s right,” Val said tightly, tiny white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth. “She’d gotten involved with Frank O’Toole.” As if she read his question, she added, “I know, I know. She’s a nun, he’s a priest, and they’ve taken oaths of celibacy, but trust me, she’s pregnant.” Something inside of her seemed to break, and she swallowed a couple of times, blinked, and leaned against the mantel of the cold fireplace. “I mean . . . I mean she was . . . Oh, God, can she really be dead?”

Her husband tried to console her, but she’d have none of it, holding up a hand before he got too close. Her gaze found Montoya’s again. “You remember Frank in high school. The ladies’ man? Seems like nothing much has changed despite his vestments. This isn’t the first time,” she charged. “Camille told me he’d had another affair with a nun, someone named . . . Oh, God, what was it?” She looked at the ceiling, as if trying to think, to deal with the horror of her sister’s death.

“Another nun?” Bentz asked, obviously disbelieving, thinking she was in shock. Hysterical.

Valerie nodded. “I’m sure Camille said something about it once.”

“Do you have a name?”

“No . . . oh, wait. Something like Lily or Leanne . . . I really can’t remember.” Sniffing and clearing her throat, she fought tears and asked brokenly, “How did he do it?”

The two cops didn’t answer, and she said, “I want to know.”

“It looks like she was strangled,” Bentz offered. “We don’t know the actual cause of death yet, but . . . that’s the way it looks now.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and as she did, her face grew taut, as if she were seeing Camille’s perfect face in her mind’s eye, her sister’s eyes bulging, her lips trying to gasp for air.

“He choked her?”

Bentz said, “We’ll know more later.”

“Where?” She turned from Bentz to Montoya. “Where did it happen?”

“In the chapel at St. Marguerite’s, around midnight, we think.” Montoya said, “We don’t have any other details we can share with you.”

“She’s my sister.” Her voice was a low whisper.

Montoya nodded. “We know, but for now, until we’re certain of our facts, we can’t say too much.”

Valerie seemed to accept that, though she blinked back tears and straightened her shoulders in what appeared to be an attempt at gaining some of her rapidly ebbing composure.

“And you don’t live here, right?” Bentz asked Slade.

So, he’d put two and two together.

“I drove in from Texas last night.”

“You live there?”

Slade nodded and Valerie looked as if she wanted to wilt right through the floor.

“And you live here in New Orleans?” Bentz said to Val.

“Yeah . . . Slade and I are separated.”

Montoya asked Slade, “So you knew Camille Renard. How well?”